


BLACKOUT

by LadyLampblack



Category: BioShock 1 & 2 (Video Games)
Genre: Fontaine pretends he knows what he's doinv, Frank Fontaine gets fucking drunk, Hilarity Ensues, Steinman has a sense of humor, he doesnt, nonconsensual operation, nonconsensual surgery, plastic surgery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:34:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22438819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLampblack/pseuds/LadyLampblack
Summary: Frank Fontaine, that man isn't known for getting drunk.  Who knew that the first time he drinks publicly could end in such disaster.Damn you, Steinman. He didn't mean it when he'd said he wanted to be pretty and Irish.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	BLACKOUT

It's not often that Frank Fuckin’ Fontaine gets drunk, but when he does he's a goddamned riot.

  
Everyone had bustled on down to the pub after a particularly large shipment got smuggled in to celebrate the incoming windfall. Even the head of the operation himself came to celebrate, and most of his followers didn't even know he drank. And drink he did. 

  
Every time someone looks over at him, he’s downing a newly topped up glass. No one can blame him. Stress can be a bitch, and he has every right to celebrate the windfall like the rest of them.

  
No one cuts him off.

  
By the time Steinman comes in late after an operation, the bald man is staggering around and shouting drunkenly.

  
“An’ so-so-so… Ryan can go ffffuck himself!” Fontaine rallies, receiving a round of not quite so drunk cheers in agreement. The man grins like a loon once he spots Steinman walking in.

  
“Stem man!” he chirps like a sleepy child. “Stemmystemmystemmy. Y'know… y'know how I was a fake China?”

  
No, Steinman doesn't. “Of course, sir.”

  
Fontaine grins like a loon. “I wanna… wanna do that ‘gain. ‘Cept longer. Y-Y-Y'know what I ain't ever been a'fore?”

  
“What, sir?”

  
“Pretty. An-an’ Irish. Always wanted ta be a Irish.”

  
Steinman raises an eyebrow, an idea starting to form. “Is that so, Mister Fontaine sir?”

  
Fontaine nods drunkenly, slumping more and more on top of Steinman, who is beginning to regret coming. The little nod cements his idea, and the dentist smirks evilly.

  
“You know, I could do that for you if you really, really wanted me to. It would only take… Ahhh, let's say three thousand? That sound fair?”

  
The conman gasps like an excited child promised candy and hands over his entire wallet. Steinman chuckles wryly, trying to hide his eagerness at how easy this is, and starts to carefully lead Fontaine out of the bar. Only one person asks where they're going, and Steinman easily half-lies that he's taking him home.

  
Fontaine rambles about something or other - from the sounds of it, movies - as they slump off to the Medical Pavilion. Steinman only half listens, humming and nodding idly even as he makes Fontaine lay in the surgery bed.

  
Pretty and Irish, eh? With ADAM, it shouldn't be all that hard…

  
The doctor hums innocently as he preps his tools, making sure he has the right tonics and plasmids to get this to work. 

  
“You ready, sir?”

  
÷•○●○•÷

  
Frank Fontaine wakes up with a headache characteristic of a hangover, his entire face and head feeling like it had been scrubbed raw with a pumice stone; even parts of his body, felt deep deep in the muscle and bone of his limbs, aren't free from this scouring ache. He releases a whispery groan and sits up in bed. Cracking his eyes open makes the light feel like a fresh wash of acid, and he takes a few moments to wake up more and register the odd feeling in his face and limbs better.

  
He's back in his apartment. Wasn't he at the bar before? Who brought him home? He groans again, rubbing at his face and scratching the top of his head as he tries to remember, finding short-cut hair as if it had always been there-

  
He shouldn't have hair. He's bald.

  
He tugs a bit at the hair to check that it's not a wig and scrambles out of bed to make a run for the bathroom when his scalp doesn't come loose, perching himself on the sink to get a look at his reflection, at the little crop of dark brown hair and bright blue eyes and the clean-shaven oval face with the cleft chin.

  
“What the fuck happened te me?!”

  
He clenches his jaw, now hearing the change of voice and accent. His face turns red and hot with embarrassment. What had even happened while he was drunk?

  
Plastic surgery was clearly the only real answer, and there was only one plastic surgeon down in Rapture.

  
“Steinman!” The newly tenor voice growls angrily. He should have known better, even while he was drunk off his ass. He quickly pats himself down for his wallet, then starts digging around his room.

  
No sign of it. Anywhere.

  
Fuck.

  
With an aggravated sigh, Fontaine changes his clothes and storms off to the Medical Pavilion.

  
He is not pleased that his pants bunch up around his ankles.

  
He catches a few odd stares as he power walks through the city. After all, unfamiliar faces are extremely rare. He would do well to try hiding this as long as he can. But not right now. He has a whacko to scream at.

  
Fontaine starts clearing his throat to see if he can recreate his normal gravelly baritone. “He is gonna-” he clamps his jaw shut as his voice squeaks back up the octave unintentionally.

  
God damn it.

  
Finally, he arrives at the Medical Pavilion after a long, awkward train ride. He walks right past the receptionist, who doesn't even question his presence, and he clears his throat again.

  
“Steinman!” he yowls in his proper voice as he enters the dentist's main office. The man, mid operation, turns to look at him.

  
“Ah, Mister Fontaine! Finally sober?”

  
“Care to explain this?” Fontaine asks, pointing to his face and trying to ignore how his face turns red from the squeak at the end. Steinman cackles at him.

  
“You said you wanted to be pretty and Irish!”

  
Fontaine sighs deeply and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I was fucking drunk, you arse.” he defends, not even attempting to try hiding the rest of Steinman's work. “I didn't know you could change accents wit’ fucking ADAM!”

  
Steinman shrugs and turns back to his work, humming happily. Fontaine walks closer. “What possessed you to do this?!”

  
“You said you wanted to be pretty and Irish.” Steinman repeats infuriatingly.

  
“Ugh… Can I at least have my wallet back?”

  
The little sleeve of leather is carelessly tossed back at him, emptied of all change and bills. Fontaine growls, but pockets it anyways. “Have fun wit’ that cash, ya nutjob.”

  
The ride to the shopping district is far from a fun one. He pulls some more of his cash out of the bank - thankful there's no need to confirm identity down here - and goes to the nearest beauty store. Internally, he's kind of mourning having to shave this admittedly nice head of hair to keep what had happened a secret, but a bald cap would be way too much effort to deal with on the daily. It's so tempting, though. It's been a long while since he's had hair... 

  
Razors, shaving cream, foundation and other miscellaneous makeup basics go into his basket, and he finds himself comparing concealer tones when suddenly something strikes him.

  
… How's he gonna hide that cleft in his chin? 

  
Nobody would recognize him, maybe he could ask for some advice from a makeup artist. Hell, he could probably exploit a bit of information from a few people. Say what you wanted about Steinman, he sure as hell knows how to make a pretty face.

  
Spotting a nice looking lady, he pastes on his most winning smile and walks right up. “Hello, miss! D'ya mind if I ask fer a spot ‘o advice?”

  
The moment she notices him, he can tell she’s smitten. She pushes a lock of hair behind her ear and gives him a noticeable once-over. “What do ya need help with there, handsome?” she asks with sweet, Bristol tones. He taps the cleft of his chin.

  
“I need te hide this here cleft in me chin for an upcoming costume party. Do you know anything that could help?”

  
She taps a manicured finger to her lips in thought. “Well… I know my sister has wrinkle filler that she uses for covering up her dimples. That might work. A bit of concealer that matches your skin tone, and you should be golden.”

  
With a quick thanks and another flash of pearly whites, Fontaine is off hunting for the items.

  
He tries his best to keep a modicum of confidence as he waits in line to pay for the items. A few more winning smiles get cast around, and he manages to avoid having questions get asked of him. He is nearly free of shopping when he gets tapped on the shoulder, and he turns to that helpful lady from before. “What's your name, sir? I don't think I caught it…”

  
He freezes for a moment to think. Lie and act like this never happened and risk Ryan hunting him down, or tell a half truth and risk outing himself?...

  
“Atlas.” he lies smoothly before he can come to a decision. She smiles fondly.

  
“I'm Dolly.” she introduces, slipping him a piece of paper. A small wink, and she disappears.

  
It's… a phone number.

  
He screws up his face. Why'd she give him this?

  
A shrug, and he's walking back to the train station, idly stuffing the phone number into his shopping bag. He thankfully gets fewer stares from people who think he's just a young hopeful trying to make it down in Rapture. In a way, they wouldn't be wrong.

  
He gets off at his stop, tripping a little on the hem of his pants and scowling. It's probably going to cost a pretty penny to make Steinman undo this. A pretty penny he doesn't have.

  
Wait, Steinman doesn't revert any of his operations. He's stuck like this. Fuck. Shit. He sighs and adjusts his hold on his bag of newly bought makeup to ride up the elevator.

  
He examines his features again before unpacking his makeup, paying more attention to detail now that he's not in a hungover half asleep panic.

  
He… honestly isn’t too terribly different than he’s supposed to look. Chin dimple and hair and eye color aside, the only true difference now is the subtle raise in his cheekbones, the hint of roundness to his cheeks and jawline to make him look baby-faced, the faint smattering of freckles dusted under his eyes and across his cheeks, the roundness to his eyes that make him look friendlier. Thankfully, all things easy to hide.

  
Frankly… the hardest thing to hide is his eyes. And even that can be waved off easily.

  
He sighs and heads out to the kitchen to retrieve the scissors. He gives himself a moment to mourn the admittedly nice hair before haphazardly hacking at it. It falls to the floor in clumps, making a mess of strands wherever it lands, and it doesn't take long before his hair has been reduced to an uneven crew cut. Once he finishes cutting to the scalp, he swaps out his scissors for the razor to begin painstakingly shaving it off. Internally, as he does so, he wonders how the hell he's supposed to fake the moustache. He could honestly glue a couple of clumps of hair to his face and no one would notice. Everyone in Rapture is a sap. They'd all fall for that.

  
It takes him a bit to figure out how the rest of the makeup works, and he carefully defines where his features normally rest to harshen them up slightly. About an hour later, Fontaine is staring at his own face in the mirror again. He sighs subtly in relief and straightens his clothes out. He feels like he's wearing a face paint mask, but he looks like him again. 

  
He bustles around to clean up the mess he made to avoid questions being asked. He has a feeling he's going to hate this. 

  
÷•○●○•÷

  
Fontaine has been doing his best to keep up the disguise. He’s managed to do that though for a solid six months. By far, it’s his most intensive disguise, and he’s disguising as himself. He’s starting to think he should try to make Steinman reconsider his ‘no regrets, no reversions’ policy for a cut of his next smuggling deal.

  
He’s glad people are dumb enough to not notice that he’s drinking a lot more water than usual. He has to, to keep up his usual voice without any squeaks. He's also grateful no one has questioned why the soles on his shoes suddenly tripled in thickness. And he’s grown so, so tired of the tedium it takes to hide all of it.

  
Thankfully, everybody seems as blind as fucking bats.

  
Keeping his head shaved is almost more effort than it’s worth. He keeps waking up with a fine layer of stubble all across his scalp every goddamned day, and he’s seriously considering just switching to the bald cap so he doesn’t have to keep using up his razors and shaving cream. Not to mention, he could leave the building without being immediately recognized.

  
He washes his face clear of the makeup, as he's taken to doing sooner and sooner after getting downright sick of having to paint his face every day just to look normal. Looking at his reflection without the makeup…

  
… He looks better with the hair.

  
He sighs. Bald cap it is. In the meantime, while he waits for his hair to grow back… he can probably pretend he's sick or something.

  
Aaaand here he is, considering just giving up and keeping the new face. He might as well, really, since he's stuck with the look. Not painting his face every day would be a relief.

  
… Now he's trying to figure out some way to simply not have to disguise himself.

  
He internally cuts off that train of thought. It's not worth entertaining at the moment. For now, he's just going to play sick until he can buy himself a bald cap.

  
He can practically hear Steinman now. Finally accepted it, eh? Finally got that tantrum out of your system?

  
Fuck him. It's only until he can make Steinman put him back to normal. 

  
He's already got the men hired to shove the man around for him a bit. A couple of months should be enough time for the hair to grow back in enough to make him look not so stupid. He runs his hand over the shiny bald head contemplatively. It strikes as kind of odd, how his harsher and more severe regular face is perfectly fine, and even better without hair to frame it, but this soft baby face Steinman gave him just looks… strange.

  
He's honestly considering sporting a wig until his hair grows back in. He has to stop himself from going and grabbing one. He refuses to admit defeat to a pansy dentist that thinks he knows how to cut a face into shape!

  
But… just this once. Only so he can leave the building without looking stupid.

  
He huffs to himself as he heads to his wardrobe and pulls the false bottom of the shoe drawer up. Now, which one is closest to his actual hair color…

  
He pulls out a short-cut black wig, figuring no one would notice it's not his natural dark brown. He scuttles back into the bathroom to fix it on his head and comb it into something resembling being decent. The black wig is a leftover from that time he'd pretended to be Chinese, and it’s so comparatively greasy and fake. He hadn't realized until now.

  
It'll have to do.

  
He fusses a bit more with the fake hair, trying to capture that effortless ruffle he’d woken up with that first day. His attempts are only partly successful, giving him more of a gross, unwashed look than anything.

  
He wonders if he should dig for another wig or something. He decides against it, they all felt greasy and fake like this one. 

  
It's better than nothing.

  
÷•○●○•÷

  
He's going to murder Steinman. He's going to actually murder Steinman. Even under the threat of death, he flat out refused to put him back to normal. 

  
He's starting to think the man's gone insane. Without the starting part. 

  
The bastard had given him a gene tonic that makes his hair grow faster. While he's grateful it only took a couple weeks for the wig to be completely redundant, he needs to cut it every goddamn day to not become the second coming of Rapunzel. Maybe he should visit a Gene Bank.

  
For now, though, he needs to deal with the fact that he simply can't rule his empire by continuing on with this charade. Either he homebrews his own plastic surgery, or he just throws out this old identity and makes a whole new one.

  
He's not cotton to fucking with his own face. He's seen what happens when you do that too much. He's also not cotton to losing his entire empire. He's worked too hard and extorted too many people to just let it all die like that. But he has to make a choice. He can't keep living a double life like this.

  
He sighs as he sits in his train car, largely ignored now thanks to his going outside more. First stop is a gene bank, then next up he's going to grab some coffee and think over his choices.

  
Fuck, his throat hurts. Having to fake his own voice is making him never want to talk again. 

  
The train stops at his stop and he sighs as he gets up to disembark. He half-saunters off with the calculated calm of nothing being wrong, eye out for a gene bank.

  
He spots one with a short line and pauses right on the end. After a minute, someone taps him on the shoulder. 

  
“Hey, handsome, haven't seen you in a while.” a woman's voice hums. He turns to see a pretty, vaguely familiar lady. She looks him up and down again, lingering below his waist for a moment. He looks down to try seeing what she was staring at before giving her an odd look.

  
“Do I know ya?”

  
“Oh, I'm Dolly. You asked me for advice on… hiding dimples, if I remember correctly.” she says as her eyes skate down again. He looks on the ground behind him, but nothing interesting there.

  
“What are ya looking at?” he asks, and Dolly flushes pink.

  
“Oh… You know…” 

  
He raises an eyebrow and takes his turn at the gene bank to remove the hair growth tonic. The feeling of it being taken out is… odd. Not unpleasantly so, but still odd nonetheless. He could take out the accent bullshitery, but he'd rather not. Not right now.

  
… Could he? He scrolls through the list of gene tonics and plasmids while ignoring the pretty lady's question, and… there's nothing for the accent. What the hell?

  
A few useless cycles through the list, and he realizes what's happening.

  
Steinman fucking mentally conditioned the accent.

  
÷•○●○•÷

  
“Steinman!”

  
The doctor turns, like he had half a year before, and lights lup. “Why, it's my finest work!”

  
Fontaine pays the odd comment no mind and grabs the taller man roughly by the collar. “Listen here, ya sick fuck, yer gonna put me back ta normal, or I'll throw ye inte the nearest thermal vent!”

  
Steinman doesn't even seem a little worried, smiling warmly and squishing Fontaine's cheeks. 

  
“Aphrodite smiled upon me with this one.” he hums almost reverently, and Fontaine becomes confused at the man continues. “My magnum opus! All my other work pales in comparison!”

  
Even through the latex gloves, the shorter man can feel the dentist's fingers dig into his cheeks.

  
“Where are you now, Aphrodite? Why is my greatest work a paltry prank?”

  
Fontaine gets a sudden sense of unease. “... Yer off yer gourd.” he mutters. It's Steinman's turn to grab Fontaine by the collar and lift him off the ground.

  
“You have stolen her favor from my grasp!” the surgeon accuses. Fontaine kicks his feet, startled by the sudden loss of control of the situation. “You, a man of lies and false faces, have cursed us both in the eyes of the queen of beauty!”

  
The forced Irishman panics and punches Steinman in the jaw, feeling a sick crack under his hand and he's dropped to the floor in surprise.

  
“What the fuck is wrong with ye?!” he screeches, not even turning red at how his voice pitches up.

  
Steinman just makes a jittery noise. Fontaine scrambles to his feet and, thoroughly freaked out, bolts.

  
What the actual hell is wrong with that man?!

  
… He's stuck like this, isn't he?

  
Fontaine sighs heavily, heading back to the shopping district. He'd skipped out on that coffee in his rage.

  
He hates all of this.

  
Half an hour later, he's staring blankly into a cup of coffee and coming to terms (again) with the reality that he very well could be stuck like this for the rest of his life. In his time, he's spent years wearing different name tags and faces. But this one?

  
He hadn't wanted this one. Hell, he can't even remember asking for it.

  
He sighs and sips at the latte getting cold in his hands, savoring the sweetness. He lets himself just sit in the moment, for half a second lets himself pretend he was someone born with the face he has.

  
What would his name be, if he had been? What would his life be like? What kind of person would he be?

  
He groans, pushing his existentialism to the side in his head and downs the rest of his almost-cold latte. He rubs his temples in exasperation, torn over what to do now.

  
Damn that Steinman.

  
There’s a tap on his shoulder. “Excuse me, is this seat taken?” a man's voice asks. 

  
“Ah, yeah, sure, go righ’ ahead.” Fontaine brushes off, flapping his hand. A man, definitely taller than Fontaine ever was and twice as wide as him, sits across from him. The tall man gives him a suave smirk.

  
"I take it you're this Atlas fellow I've heard so much about?"

  
Fontaine almost asks what he's talking about before he remembers. "Ah, yeah, tha's me. Why?"

  
The man flutters his eyes. "You're quite handsome."

  
"Er… thanks?" Fontaine asks more than says awkwardly. He stands up. "I gotta get goin' actually. Have a nice day."

  
The man looks disappointed as Fontaine speedwalks away.

  
He needs to find a new doctor.

  
÷•○●○•÷

  
He sits awkwardly as he waits in the waiting room to see Doctor Tenenbaum. Word on the street is, she's the best damn girl at her job. He could use a little expert help. He's worked with her before, but… not so personally.

  
He's called in, and he watches the doctor clean her surgery tools while he settles down. "Ah, you are being the new patient, yes?" She asks briskly.

  
She's such a stark opposite to Steinman. All of her tools are clean and neat and orderly, carefully organized and probably sharpened daily, while Steinman just piles his tools on the tray to stack, stick, and rust while he saws away with still bloody scalpels.

  
She's a fairly well put together and professional woman, and he can respect that.

  
"Ah, yes I am, ma'am. Frank Fontaine, at your service. In need o' service too, heh."

  
She gives him a dry, unimpressed look. "And I am the queen of the Big Daddies." She remarks.

  
"I really am, though! Steinman gave me a makeover while I was drunk 'bout six months ago, and I've been stuck hidin' it since! Can't ye fix it?"

  
She sighs through her nose, making her nostrils flare. "I will be needing to observe your gene combinations. I cannot guarantee that I can completely fix you, but I shall do my best."

  
"Thanks, Doc." Fontaine sighs. "How are those Little Sisters goin' by the way? Those Alpha tests panning out?"

  
That makes the doctor pause. "I am not being of liberty to discuss that here, Herr Fontaine." She responds simply, sticking his arm with a more complex gene bank. "It is looking like… ADAM was simply used to prevent scarring during the surgery. Eye color tonic, voice changing tonic…" she sighs. "Things not easily removable without major damage and more plastic surgery."

  
"Oh, well ain't that a crock 'o fun?"

  
"This is being a bit of an advantage, however, because you will not be recognized so easily."

  
She continues her diagnosis, and sends him on his way with the bill.

  
So that helped. Not.

  
÷•○●○•÷

  
Fontaine lays in bed, dreading waking up. His new appearance just wears him out so much, there's still a strong dissociation when he looks in the mirror.

  
He hates it. It makes him want to die.

  
He begins plotting his own assassination for the hell of it, figuring it would be better to be dead than not him.

  
… But what if it wasn't actually him?

  
He sits up in bed, making a beeline for the elevator because he just had a brilliant idea. He has to make a visit to Dr. Suchong and get to work on a scheme that's been sizzling on his back burner for a good while.

  
It all starts with his death, naturally.

  
He drags a random assistant with him to the doctor’s apartment.

  
“Suchong, I gotta job fer ya!” Fontaine bellows, sick of hiding what Steinman did to his voice.

  
The reclusive doctor peeks out. “It involves fakin’ my death.”

  
“Who are you?”

  
Fontaine rolls his eyes. He’s been getting this from everyone he associates with.

  
“It’s Fontaine.” he drawls, forcing the low pitch. The doctor's eyes narrow. "Steinman decided to prank me back when he was sane, and now I'm sick and tired of trying to hide it after not being able to undo it. Putting on a fake identity is easier than trying to pretend the prank didn't happen."

  
"And what is Mister Fontaine planning?" Suchong asks. Frank smirks darkly.

  
÷•○●○•÷

  
The ground shakes at his feet, and screams fill the air. He pulls in a puff of cigarette smoke and slooowly lets it out like a sleeping dragon. He throws the cigarette down and grinds it under his foot. He hefts a bag over his shoulder and steps away from the poster of his new face, wearing a cocky smirk.

  
He rolls his shoulders, the gears in his head turning as he plans out the next steps in his plan to take Rapture.

  
He needs a few aces in his deck. And he knows who to ask for help."Well then, that's that. Goodbye Fontaine…"

  
He turns away from the carnage his last plan caused, secretly relieved he doesn’t need to work so hard to fake his identity.

  
"... And hello Atlas."

  
Steinman better be fucking happy.


End file.
